


One Soul

by comtessedebussy



Category: Star Trek
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Mating, Mind Meld, Painful Sex, Pon Farr, Possessive Sex, Rough Sex, Soul Bond, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-14
Updated: 2013-12-14
Packaged: 2018-01-04 14:22:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/comtessedebussy/pseuds/comtessedebussy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been years since Spock had taken Kirk as his bondmate. Their connection reaches between their very souls - and, given this fact,  Kirk had always assumed that when the time for Spock's pon farr came, he would come to his mate and share that, too. </p><p>When Spock doesn't come to him, it is Kirk who comes to Spock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Soul

**Author's Note:**

> I've tagged this fic as belonging to both the TOS and the Alternate Original Series fandoms; I had no particular version of Kirk and Spock in mind when I wrote this, for in both versions there is a profound bond between the two. You are welcome to imagine whatever version of Kirk and Spock you prefer, though I must note that imagining them as the Kirk and Spock of TOS requires ignoring the events of "Amok Time."

“He's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.” – Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights

 

It was one of the incontrovertible facts of the universe that Kirk and Spock had a bond between them. Incontrovertible like the speed of light, the existence of gravity, and the matter-antimatter ration of the _Enterprise._ Even more incontrovertible than those facts, perhaps, for in the laws of physics the Enterprise always seemed to discover anomalies, alternate universes, strange fields and phenomena that disrupted the nature of the universe as they knew it. But a fact that brooked no argument, no question, no contradictory data in every universe (Kirk had no doubt of that, though he could only truly vouch for his own) was that he and Spock shared a bond.

It was a bond in every way imaginable. He was Spock’s mate, for they were bonded in the Vulcan fashion. But that mating, in itself, was founded on another: Spock was his soul mate. That, too, was perhaps an understatement, for more than that, Spock was the other half of his very own soul.

In one of those strange ironies of the universe they explored together, their differences were what allowed them to fit together so seamlessly. He had marveled at it once, how alien Spock was, how strange and antithetical to everything he was, and yet how those differences filled in the spaces in his own character, completed the imperfect shape of his own humanity. 

In fact, if the universe was an infinite, mysterious puzzle whose pieces they sought to put together with each new voyage into the unknown, then he and Spock were two pieces of that puzzle, fitting together with a shattering perfection that spoke of a logic to the universe. Spock had often said as much: he had irrefutable proof of that which was his greatest hope - that there was order and meaning rather than chaos to this infinite universe - in the way their minds fit together and in the geometric perfection of the way their bodies slotted together also.

The bond between them had rooted itself long ago, growing and blossoming, until they functioned not as two beings but as one. Perhaps even as a perfect piece of machinery whose various screws and gears produced a perfect mechanism through the timely, exact, and perfect interaction of pieces that fit together.

But together, they were more than machine; together, their two halves made a perfect being, a perfect consciousness, a perfect soul even.

Together, they made one.

One soul.

Given these undeniable facts, Kirk had always assumed that the _logical_ deduction to make would be that when the Time of Spock’s pon farr came, his mate would come to him.

Spock had told him of pon farr when they had bonded. He had explained the intricacies, bowing his head with shame while he did so, had spoken of the ways a Vulcan might survive that Time, and of the role his mate could play. Kirk had said he understood, Spock had nodded, and they’d both agreed (or so Kirk had thought) that there was only one logical conclusion from Kirk’s agreement to the bond once he possessed that knowledge.

But, it seems, Kirk had underestimated the depth of the Vulcan’s shame, his unwillingness to share this deepest, most unflattering part of himself. Spock did not come to him. Spock barricaded himself in his quarters, silent, incommunicative. He put up a wall in his mind, steely and impenetrable. There was only one reason his mate would hide from him in such a way; they had shared everything else but this. Besides, it didn’t take an arithmetic genius to calculate when it was Spock’s Time.

He came to Spock, then.

He had no illusions about what would happen. They would not make love. That was not the nature of pon farr – it was not about love, but about possession and desperate need.

The thought did not deter Kirk. The bond between them was one between their hearts and minds, with their bodies a pleasant afterthought, or perhaps a physical consummation of that which, mentally and emotionally, made up their very being. He had long ago given his soul to Spock, melded his very existence with the man, and in doing so had given over his body as well. What he came to offer Spock was that body. If Spock had need of it in order to live, then Kirk would give it, willingly, immediately, completely.

He entered Spock’s quarters with a security override, ignoring the slight twinge of guilt at this violation of privacy. He came with good reason, he told himself.

Spock sat on his bed, meditating, but Kirk could see unwilling tension in the lines of his body.

 “Spock.”

The Vulcan looked up at the simple word; he had known, Kirk had no doubt, of the human’s presence as soon as Kirk appeared in the doorway, but now, for the first time, Spock appeared to see him, and the calm façade of his face cracked so easily it scared Kirk.

“I know what’s happening to you. Let me help,” he interjected before Spock could say a word.

Spock rose, with that Vulcan grace, coming to stand before Kirk yet keeping a distance between them.

Logical as ever, Spock did not offer vain ignorance or useless protests. No. Sometimes it was so easy to be with a Vulcan, to not dance around delicate topics but to speak with candid honesty.

Still, Spock shook his head adamantly.

“I cannot. This shameful, terrible thing within me, I cannot bare it to you,” he pleaded. “It is brutality and savagery and everything that I am not. I cannot let you share in it.”

“So, what were you going to do? Meditate until you died?” Kirk tried to make his tone angry and demanding, but somehow, could not in the face of the Vulcan’s shame. 

Spock bowed his head. “I was seeking the logical solution, but it evaded me. You are my mate, and you are not ignorant of… _this._ I know you well enough to know that you would not wish my death, and so the logical solution for both of us seemed to come to you.” He paused.

“But?” Kirk prompted.

“But – you are my mate. The role of a mate is to love and to protect, not to cause pain and harm. You are human, and so the pain and harm to you, were you to bear the brunt of this burden, would be too great. Perhaps the logical solution would be to spare you, of the pain, and myself of the shame and guilt,” he finished.

 “Spock,” Kirk interrupted. “You know what we have between us. You know that your soul and your mind and your body are to me as my own, even now. You are to me as myself, and whatever you feel, whatever you suffer or need now – it is for me to share with you.”  

 “You do not know what you are offering,” Spock said simply. “It is not intimacy I need, or lovemaking. It is brutality and pain and need.” He paused. “It is those primal things that no Vulcan would ever willingly reveal within himself.”

Kirk shrugged.

“I do not comprehend those things that drive you, their depth and their strength, and I do not comprehend your shame in feeling them. But I do know what I am offering you.” He looked Spock in the eyes when he said it. “Myself, as always.”

The Vulcan’s face changed little, perhaps too intent at keeping at bay the desperate need to allow other emotions to creep onto his face, but Kirk knew the impact those words had. He watched Spock’s resolve crack, and then the slow agreement appear in his expression.

Spock nodded.

“I am sorry,” he said, “that you must see me like this. I am sorry that you must bear the brunt of those parts of myself that I despise the most, that I would rather you never see.” He paused before adding, “For what I do to you…forgive me.”

Kirk smiled easily. “Forgiven.”

Spock began with a kiss – quick and rough, not a kiss per se, but the proper introduction to what they were about to engage in. He claimed Kirk’s lips as he pushed the human down on the bed, beginning with this simple claim that would escalate into so much more as he tore off the human’s clothes.

Kirk had prepared himself before coming to Spock, knowing that the nature of pon farr would leave them little time or opportunity for such things. Spock was driven by a need so overwhelming that even the iron strength of his logic could not hold it back, and so Kirk had made his body ready, offered it now, open and prepared.

With another whispered “Forgive me,” Spock took what was offered him, driving ruthlessly into the human’s body with one brutal thrust. He had pinned Kirk’s hands above his head, offering him no opportunity to hold or to reassure. Kirk could barely move, had little to do but to succumb. Spock was in control here; he was the one who knew what he needed, who understood how this must unravel, leaving Kirk nothing but to surrender himself to whatever the Vulcan dictated.

It was completely different from everything they had done together. Different, almost certainly, from their silent lovemaking, which needed no sweet words whispered in between their bodies to be an act of love. It was different from the rough and desperate sex they engaged in after a dangerous mission, when one used another’s body in desperate relief of their safety. There was no loving intimacy to this; their hands were not wrapped together in a Vulcan kiss, their lips not touching in a human one. Spock’s hand did not find Kirk’s cock, did not care for his pleasure – and there was little pleasure Kirk could feel now, with this way that Spock used his body for his own satisfaction. He could feel Spock’s hands doing nothing but holding him still, pliant, conveniently placed for the Vulcan’s use. His fingers left a scattering of bruises as his Vulcan hands pressed the human to the bed, holding him unmoving, perfectly placed to be used. Somewhere, Kirk thought absently, Spock’s hand might be holding him so tightly a bone might break, before he remembered that Spock did not have the strength of a full-blooded Vulcan. But, he thought, such degrees of measurement did no matter, not when he was already so helpless beneath the Vulcan’s hands.

No, instead of the lovemaking that had been their lot thus far, Spock claimed his body. This was what pon farr was – above all, the claiming by a Vulcan of his mate. Yet Kirk was already his mate, in more ways than one, had been for a long time. This was yet another iteration of that claim, a useless one, perhaps, for this was a claim that left a mark on the body, meaningless compared to the marks they had left on each other’s souls. Still, nevertheless, that was what Spock was doing – laying a complete and irrevocable claim on Kirk’s body, a body that already belonged to him as the soul within it did. He was brutal – as cold and calm and logical as Spock had been at every instant Kirk had known him, composed and rational – to that extent he was now savage and primal. He used Kirk’s body, driving in again and again with no respite, using Kirk’s body so thoroughly that nobody else would ever want to, breaking him in as one would a new possession so that no one else could make use of it.

Kirk had expected nothing else. He knew of the desperate brutality that this act would entail, as he had expected the pain that would be part of the act. Kirk was no stranger to pain – what starship captain was? But every time Kirk had been captured or tortured or used or brainwashed he had resisted and fought with every fiber of his being. But for Spock, Kirk did not resist. He endured. He stifled the pain he felt, until it brought out of him with sharp cries, his only act of resistance, perhaps.

Spock used his body once, twice, thrice, before stilling, burying his head in the crook of Kirk’s neck, bowing it in shame. They remained still and silent in that manner for several minutes, Kirk unable to move and Spock unwilling. Finally, Kirk broke the silence before the weight of shame consumed his mate.

“Spock,” Kirk said softly. “It’s all right.” The Vulcan didn’t respond, and Kirk shifted, taking the hand that had pinned his wrists and winding his fingers through Spock’s. “I’m all right,” he said, running his fingers gently over Spock’s, but the Vulcan only winced in pain at the words.

He used another word, then. A word that had always belonged to Spock, been only his to speak, time and again, for it held more meaning to him than any other in all the languages he knew.

 “T’hy’la,” he said gently.

Spock’s face lifted to him, filled with incredulity, which shared it with guilt and shame.

“I’m all right,” he said, though his body protested that the facts were otherwise. But Kirk had never been one to be governed by the words his body spoke to him.

The shame did not leave Spock’s face, and neither did the guilt.

“You saved us both,” Kirk continued. “Yourself from death, and me from the living death of losing you.”

Something shattered in Spock’s face. Perhaps it was the shame, breaking into a thousand pieces and falling away, and certainly the incredulity that went with it. The guilt, however, remained.

Lovingly, tenderly, Spock traced a hand over Kirk’s face. He allowed himself to feel it, that much was obvious, in the way his eyes fluttered closed as he gently traced the treasured features of his t’hy’la.

Kirk snaked his hand up to curl around Spock’s, holding the Vulcan’s fingers against his cheek. Spock easily deduced what he desired; carefully, he placed his own fingers on the proper points, opening his own mind and gazing into Kirk’s.

Kirk’s mind was filled with nothing but love. It overwhelmed Spock with its unadulterated purity. There was no anger, no resentment, no hidden hate or regret. There was pain, of the physical sort only, which Spock knew his mate well enough to know he would try to hide; he accepted it, with another pang of guilt, and allowed himself to be drown in the love he felt, in the love that was borderless and boundary-less like the universe itself.

He responded in kind. What Kirk’s mind offered, he offered to the human as well, pouring all of the emotions stored behind his carefully-built façade of logic. It is impossible to compare two infinities, for they are just that – infinity, unmeasurable, infinitely large. Both of their loves were infinities, not to be measured or pitted against each other, both consuming, melding their minds into one as that love mixed and mingled over the bond. Even with no way to measure, illogically, he still wanted Kirk to see that what he felt was none the less, that inside his Vulcan façade of logic it consumed him, as a black hole consumed matter.

They broke apart, but not truly. Though the mind-melded ended, still there was that bond between them, infinite, unbreakable, with the love of each so strong that, unable to be contained within one mind or one heart, it danced over the bond.

Kirk opened his eyes to gaze on Spock silently. His lips parted to say something, but no words came, for what could words speak that the connection between minds had not already said?

“Let me care for you,” Spock offered. When Kirk agreed, he hefted the human body easily, yet gently, off the bed, carrying it into the bathroom. The privilege of a captain’s quarters was the privilege of a bath in addition to a shower, and Spock quickly filled the tub with hot water – but only as hot as a human body could stand, and lowered Kirk gently into it. He climbed in behind the human, until they sat, back-to chest, allowing Spock to wash away the traces of their – he had almost thought, _lovemaking,_ before he had remembered. Stupid, illogical! It was not so. It was the traces of his need that he washed from Kirk’s body, unwilling for any mark to remain of his acts, even as he knew the mark would still remain, in some way, on his soul. The memories of his action would be tempered, quieted, hidden away in the back of his mind, but always they would be present, the mark of them ineffaceable.

Kirk’s body was pliant against his, relaxing in the soothing water as he held it. Though the most drastic of his needs were satisfied, still his body had not completely passed through pon farr, and he found himself longing, still, for the body he held. A part of him desired, needed even, to take it, again. Its closeness, its defenseless pliancy made him harden again, but he ignored the call of his body.

Kirk felt his erection, pressed together as they were. He turned to look questioningly at Spock. “Do you need – “ he began.

Spock shook his head.

“No, Jim. I have taken all I need from you tonight.”

Was that relief he saw on Kirk’s face? Perhaps it was. He knew that Jim would offer every last fiber of himself if he believed it necessary, no matter the cost, and it was this, more than anything, that made him refuse.

The water had grown cool around them. Concerned for the human’s warmth, Spock lifted him out, toweling his body gently and – he could not help it – admiring the way the toned muscles glistened in the light. Kirk huffed in a slight frustration, but allowed Spock to care for him, to pick up his body, carry it to be bed with ease, and slide him under the covers.

Spock slid under the covers beside him, pulling Kirk’s body close, but with gentleness. He could see the marks and bruises on Jim’s body (in the bath, he had checked that the human had endured no greater harm than bruises and soreness). Another pang of guilt fell over him, confronted in this way as he was yet again with the evidence of his actions. His logic reminded him that Kirk had been willing, had forgiven him, that there was no lasting harm done. But, whether it was the remnants of pon farr, with its ability to conquer logic, or the strength of what Kirk was to him, but that logic remained in battle with emotion.

Jim seemed unaware of it. He stretched before curling himself against Spock. “Thanks,” he murmured sleepily into the crook of the Vulcan’s neck.

“It is I who should be thanking you,” Spock replied.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Kirk muttered. “Now lemme sleep.”

“Good night, Jim,” Spock murmured as Kirk drifted off to sleep.  Spock held him close, wrapping his arms protectively over his mate. Protectively, but logic reminded him that, with the remnants of pon farr still ruling his body, it was possessiveness as much as protectiveness that caused him to pull his human’s, his mate’s, body close, shield it from the touch of another.

 

When Kirk awoke, one of the first things he did was groan. His body felt like it was made of so many splinters, haphazardly glued together. That, coupled with the lethargy of sleep, made every movement painful.

“Jim,” he heard Spock’s voice as he blinked open his eyes. The Vulcan was already awake, his eyes bright with concern as he gazed down at the human still in his arms. “How do you feel?”

Briefly, Kirk considered avoiding the truth to spare his mate pain, but it was the thought of but a moment. What kind of mate would he be if he hid the truth from him to whom he was bonded?

“I’ve been better,” he admitted. He attempted to stretch, wincing again as his muscles protested. It was not lost on Spock, whose eyes filled with pain.

“I regret what I have done to you,” he apologized, again.

Kirk flashed him a small smile.

“I’ve also had worse,” he said. “I’ll be all right.”

Spock nodded. It was the truth, the logical truth.

 “Spock – “ Kirk raised himself up to look at the Vulcan. “I want you to promise me something.”

“Anything, t’hy’la,” Spock was quick to agree.  

Kirk smiled.

“Perhaps you would not be so quick to agree if you knew what I would ask. No matter. Spock – I want you to promise me that when your Time comes again, you will come to me.”

“You were right, Jim,” Spock admitted. “Perhaps I should not have been so quick to agree to your request.”

“Spock – “ Kirk sat up fully, getting more comfortable for the conversation ahead.

“You are my bonded mate,” he began. “There is a link between our minds and our hearts, between our very souls. Even more than that, sometimes I feel that though we are in two bodies, you are a piece of my soul, and I a part of yours. How nonsensical, then, how strange and illogical, to separate our bodies. How illogical, to refuse a connection between our bodies when our souls are so linked, to refuse to share in pain as we share in joy!”

His words spilled from him in a poignant monologue, more dramatic than he’d intended.

Spock gazed at him in silence, his logical mind processing the words forged by love.

Kirk reached for Spock’s hand, twining their fingers together again. He did not know whether Spock allowed himself to feel it, did not known if he permitted himself a reaction to the caresses of that most sensitive of spots. He looked instead into Spock’s face.

“Promise me that you will share this with me. Promise me, my soul, that you will seek my body when you need it.”

Spock grasped Kirk’s hand in both of his own. His words, when he replied, were steady and measured, unlike the passionate ones uttered by Kirk. Still, they were the words of passion.

He said, “I promise, t’hy’la.”

Over the next few days, Spock refused to lay a hand on Kirk until his injuries healed. Though Kirk longed for the Vulcan’s touch, he knew the painful reminder that each mark of his body would be for his mate. He waited, patiently, until his bruises faded and his skin and abrasions knit together, and only then did they make love.

“Take me as I took you,” Spock begged of him. “Do to me as I have done onto you,” he pleaded, as Kirk sank into his willing body.

“No,” Kirk denied him, shaking his head adamantly. “No. We are not enemies, to throw pain at each other; not divided beings, to seek retribution so. We are one, and share in pain as well as in joy. You felt my pain when you had me, I know you did. Now it is for you to share my pleasure, too.”

Spock protested no more.

Gently, lovingly, Kirk moved inside Spock’s body. Tenderly, he made love to the Vulcan beneath him. Two bodies, coming together as one, and feeling pleasure simultaneously, synchronously, together.

When Spock’s Time came again three years later, he sought out his mate. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Kirk/Spock story! I'm slowly making my way into the Star Trek fandom - I've watched my way through the first season of TOS, as well as the reboot movies. If there are any anomalies or contradictions of canon, I apologize in advance. They are not intentional, and are the result of letting my passion for these characters get ahead of my knowledge of the series. 
> 
> I get the sense that I've been reading a little too many good old Kirk/Spock fanzines, as I seem to have imbibed their style. The result is that the fic sounds a little too much like something that came out of Wuthering Heights (with all the darkness of the relationship in that novel). What can I say? These two characters took over. In any case, stylistically this is very different from anything I've ever written and I wanted to give it a try.


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